Devon Pearse's Blog

Lucy dreamed of the sea. Of her sister’s eyes, so pale yet brilliant, and her hair the color of the sand touched by the sun. The water rushed to drench them and they laughed together, a sound like the memory of tinkling bells, mixing with the cries of gulls. She recalled the warm wood of the boardwalk, the taste of ice cream on their tongues as they tried to lick it fast before it turned to liquid, making little streams of sweetness that trickled from their wrists to their elbows, dripping from between their sticky fingers onto sand and wood and space that made up time.

        She wished that she could fill in all the cracks between those wooden boards with all the things she thought she should have known, should have been, should have done, and should have somehow made happen, both for herself and for her sister. Then later, for her son; for William. Years slipped past like echoes on the waves. She recalled and she forgot. She realized and regretted and let go. 

And then she woke. It was early yet, the morning light still soft upon the trees. The birds began their songs as she listened, familiar music to her never-lonely ears. How beautiful, she thought, this daily gift of life. Repeating and remembered and so often not appreciated, unnoticed as it passed.  

Throughout her time here at the cabin, the days had come and gone. The evenings all had welcomed her, had bade her sleep within their arms, and so she had. Each day and each year unfolding, giving way and then fading into all that had been lived, all that had been done. And now, finally, this day greeted her like the coming of a long-awaited friend.

For Lucy had a secret. One she’d been keeping for years. It was the one thing she had managed to hold onto that was hers and hers alone. It was easy, the not telling, once she’d thought about it. If she had told anyone she knew they’d only try and talk her out of it. Or not, depending upon how they felt about her. And she never cared to learn which ones were which – the ones to whom she mattered and the ones who never gave a damn. She’d had enough of the pain of finding out, the wounds of knowing everything you’d poured out of yourself and into the supposed soul of someone else, a soul you thought you shared, or in which you, at the very least, held some significance, only to find the bond was never there. Oh, the suffering for what had never been! The humiliation born of realization: you’d not only allowed the raping of your soul, you’d offered it up on a silver platter to be ravaged.

No, this was her truth to know and to keep, protected from those wanton, prying eyes. Although in recent years she’d grown terrified of slipping up and telling someone, or forgetting it entirely. But finally the day had come and she had succeeded in keeping her secret, at least as far as she could tell.

Lucy rose to stand beside the window, her palm resting on the sill, a smile creeping across her lips. She’d often wondered if it would come to this, if she’d really see this day, or if she’d quietly pass away while wrapped up in a web of dreamless sleep. Or, what she’d always feared the most; the complete betrayal of her mind and senses, becoming a living, breathing imprint of what had once been a fierce and vibrant being. She sent up a prayer of thanks to whomever may be listening, grateful she had made it to this day with her mind and thoughts still, at the very least, coherent…if only to herself.    

How many years had she wondered how she’d feel on this morning of the day? If she would notice any fear or pangs of regret or remaining longings for the life that could have been. She found she suffered nothing, save for the familiar dull ache in her left knee. For a moment she stood by the window, watching sunlight and shadows and marveling at their endlessly repeated dance.

And now it was time.

Lucy walked through the cabin, still clad in her ankle-length nightgown. A ghost in Scotch-plaid flannel, she thought, and laughed hoarsely at the image. Then, a realization. Finn would be angry with her. This was the one consideration that made her hesitate mid-stride. But then she pushed the thought aside – a bothersome cobweb – and walked on.

Her footfalls were light upon the wood. Her breath created steam which drifted away upon the chill morning air, tiny puffs of life escaping into freedom. Into nothing. Into everything.

This is only the bittersweet stepping away from the childhood that never leaves us. The hoarding of memories stored up for the winter that we’ll feel inside our bones. It feels complete and yet unfinished. That is to say, as though it may have turned out better last time. Your words to me now fall upon deaf ears, so tired of hearing all you’ve had to say. But I’ll remember you in shadows. Tell my daughter how you used to make me smile. There’s a place for friends forgotten, the misplaced entities that had so warmed our hearts. Have we forgotten one another? Consumed by willed and forced amnesia; a breaking of the glass that once held all we’d caused each other to become.  There is a wildness to the future. Wandering through woods of barren trees. The path unending, bending back upon itself. The light ahead unfiltered, getting brighter, washing out the patterns we can’t see. Move ahead, they whisper from the Somewhere. Walk on and don’t look back and just let go. Have I told you that sometimes I really think I hear them calling? All these voices from the past, the haunted loss and longing fears. I hope to be a part of all of Someday, because I know it’s made of up these things: of papered skin and wrinkles, pin-curled hair that holds a color once its own, reflections of the moon upon the water, of lights that twinkle there and in bright eyes that shine in windblown darkness, of planted trees, of strings made up of popcorn and red berries, climbing branches and initials carved forever-never seen. In my own dreams of starlight waits a magic of a hope not yet grown old.  And then I wake, remember, and walk on.   

You didn’t have to wear the mask with me, you know
I would have accepted you With every flaw And loved you the more for them
I’ve endured more darts than you could ever throw And for the life of me I don’t know why You’d choose to be the enemy
Maybe you’ve been left so bitter from the chance you let slip by You can’t remember What it’s like To love and let love go
Or believe there could be anyone who’d let you have your place Inside the heart Of someone who You’d never have to lose
I understand the cause of all these games you choose to play The self-deception And mistrust You’ve been so eager to hold dear
I’ll never take your mask from you, you know Just hold my tongue Instead recall That deep inside it kills you
That I’m here

I’m not your fragile flower
Not the delicate creation You had so hoped I would become I’ll never be the glass-winged butterfly You take down from your shelf To show the world how beautifully You’d helped to forge my wings From ice and fire
I’ve chosen not to let you mold me Leaping from your potter’s wheel Clay dripping from my skin I’ll find my own way home Not by the path you’d force me down But through the woods and past the stream While feeling every breath Without your blessing
I’ll never trip over the roots Though you’d cautioned me They’d reach out for my feet And I won’t drown within the waters As they whirl and twist and sway I won’t be frozen by the snowfall Or captured in the talons Of a darkly feathered bird
I won’t fall out of the trees I climb And if I do, I’ll land in buoyant grass Then rest until I want to catch my breath I won’t be frightened by the clouds Or fear I may be watched by hidden eyes Indentured by a timeworn deity I never chose to know And never wanted to indulge
I have escaped from every nightmare Every make-believe constraint You’d have me fear for all my life My field has daffodils and roses Fern grows wild from every tree And ivy covers every stone I place Upon this wall I’ve built With all my truth
I’ve discovered every grace You never wanted me to know Because you couldn’t understand their voice I’ll sing out loud and dance inside the rain Be the fairy in the garden Beside the swing that shared my childhood And listen to the wind Only the wind

I was the little girl who used to fall and skin her knees And then grew up and always seemed to skin her heart “Don’t cry, doll.” My grandma’s words that I still hold to As I’m drying my own tears
Time plays such soothing music while we dance to pass the years The fleeting words like windblown sand across the page We swim through echoes making peace with other loves And broken dreams with shards of truth, while holding onto hopes That hide like frightened children in the dark
You opened up the door that leads into your memories Without a map you welcomed me inside To wander through the narrow halls together Some passions shared, some yet to be discovered
We looked behind the brick and mortar Of these walls we’d built to shore up all the past Illusions never vary - they are the things created By a gentle hand that longs to hold the dream
I’ll let you in if you can promise you won’t see me That you won’t notice all the dust Or ask about the things that lurk in corners Or that hide behind the drapes
Oh wait, I may still use that What is that thing – the one beneath the sheet? I’d forgotten all about it But maybe it was really for the best
I can’t recall what I was thinking When I offered you my wings The rusty hinges atrophied and sore from lack of use Or falling from the sky too many times
Perhaps I thought I’d never miss them I half believe you may have thought the same But nonetheless you took them And up you flew while from the ground I watched So glad for you but puzzled and bemused Because somehow I’d always thought you’d take me with you 

  Translucent wonder Falling through The turbulence and disregard Amazing in the twilight Of daydreams and of broken wings And the splendor of a sigh
Become the sunlight On the rain A delicate serenity That touches every petal And transforms all the wilted days To shadows that pass by
A token whisper In the night Born swiftly on a butterfly The little girl who once made A promise to a wishing well A heart that would not age
The breath of moments Lingering Held fast by threads of memory And painted on the landscape Of every dawn and sunset The fading of the days

Reflections. Shadows. Yellow flowers. Sunlight. Butterfly. Rustling leaves. The light, the dark. The light. The dark.

Brief moments of flight, then falling, landing, flying again.
A red bird has joined me here, perching momentarily atop a thorny bush. Somehow omnipotently knowing exactly where to place his tiny feet; how to best avoid the thorns. If only such rare knowledge could be mine.
I’m thinking of my childhood swing set. The soothing motion of the swing, the creaking voice inside the chain, always there, keeping me company, keeping pace with rise and fall.
I want to do a flip but I’m afraid. Always too afraid. What if I land wrong? What if I break something? What if-what if-what if?
I’m tired of myself today. Tired of being who I am. So tethered. So bound. So structured.
I land upon my hands and knees, then stretch out like a cat, my arms extended above my head, my stomach resting on the warm surface of the trampoline. I linger there above the ground, floating on a porous surface. I can see through to the dirt below me, dinted by the recent rain falling through the mesh it hides beneath. I’m thinking that it’s like the sea floor. Tiny heart-shaped leaves reside there—token residents from the vine that winds itself around the metal frame. I’m imagining a seahorse when the sun peeks out from his ethereal hiding place and blankets me with warming rays.
The outline of my shadow is now visible beneath me, and I think I am a shadow angel. A free form. So unfettered, unhindered, surreal. No features. Nothing marring the smooth, dark surface that is me. And only me. Only what could be within, nothing from without. Maybe this is who I am. Maybe this is all I’ll ever be. And would it matter?
My shadow moves when I move, perspectives shifting as my eyes adjust, focusing from dark to light, from shadow to its obverse. Now I feel like Peter Pan, and Wendy has sown fast my shadow. It will always follow, wherever I may go. Will always be a part of me.
And yet we’re always changing.
And so I wonder, what is me? Am I a whole or just a part? A whole made up of separate parts? Of flowing, changing matter I’ve restricted into…this?
As I ponder, the sun retires behind another cloud and my shadow self has vanished once again into the dirt. Hiding from me. Waiting for me. Never really there at all.
Perhaps like me; perhaps my restless counterpart. So very much like all we do in life. Like memories and laughter and the marks they’ve left behind. Faded scars, reluctant daydreams; souls flown free from earthly hope.
So very much like shadows. Falling once and then a ghost.
A moment in this lifetime.
A moment here…then gone.   
 

I spent yesterday with a perceptive and wonderful friend. We spoke of���well, just about everything, in the way you would with someone you seem to have known forever, even if reality assures you it hasn���t been that long at all. The walls of the coffee house were red, lined with books, eclectic works of art and collected things, and menus featuring an endless variety of coffee-based beverages. Guitars lounged expectantly, strategically reposing amongst the tables, chairs and booths, awaiting the wanton caress of restless, calloused fingers.

How was your morning? Well, I got lost, but then you know that. The coffee���s too sweet. Yeah, I noticed. Not a problem making conversation. Where���d the time go? I���m distracted. Been there, done that. I���m so sorry. What���s that phrase? Stream of consciousness. Exactly!

And so it went, and then I listened to a story; the story of a someone who had gone to see a guru, a monk, an oracle incarnate high atop a mountain. It was a search for meaning, something we all should go through, a journey every soul must undertake and in the end hope for the courage to view our lives, our selves, and find them either aggregate or wanting. Never fully consummate, let there be no doubt.

Playing against type, for he was flesh and blood, and not a stereotype within his given life, this wise man told this someone not to strive to find himself, but instead to accept the greater probability that he would, as most men do, spend a wasted life in the seeking. The point is not to find oneself, but to instead believe we were not meant to be found.

This point was illustrated by my friend, who recreated on a notebook page what his friend had drawn for him, itself a derivation of the drawing of the monk. Small circles formed another circle, and within them all, the center being, representative of our most inner selves. The first circles represented all the things we are, that we do, that we show to everyone, everything that makes the outward projection of us. But deep down inside them all rests our true self, the one that even we may never truly meet. And the freedom comes from understanding that in the end, no matter how hard we search, we may never fully get to know ourselves. But isn���t that what makes life interesting? How many times have we said, ���I can���t believe I did that.��� or ���That just wasn���t like me.��� Really? How do you know? You did it, didn���t you?

As someone who���s always wondered who I really am, what drives my heartbeat oh-so-deep down inside, what���s my motivation when it comes to living life, it struck me suddenly that if I never got to know, then I would be okay with that. Of course, somehow I���d have to be. But really, how exciting and exhilarating a thought that we can spend our entire lives getting to know others, and ourselves. And, in a sense, perhaps know someone better than we could ever know ourselves, and vice versa.

I kinda like that thought. Last night I went to sleep with a smile on my face thinking about it, and red walls, eclectic things, old guitars, friendships formed, and happenstance. And, of course, some other good advice: dream carefully. 

 

I spent yesterday with a perceptive and wonderful friend. We spoke of…well, just about everything, in the way you would with someone you seem to have known forever, even if reality assures you it hasn’t been that long at all. The walls of the coffee house were red, lined with books, eclectic works of art and collected things, and menus featuring an endless variety of coffee-based beverages. Guitars lounged expectantly, strategically reposing amongst the tables, chairs and booths, awaiting the wanton caress of restless, calloused fingers.
How was your morning? Well, I got lost, but then you know that. The coffee’s too sweet. Yeah, I noticed. Not a problem making conversation. Where’d the time go? I’m distracted. Been there, done that. I’m so sorry. What’s that phrase? Stream of consciousness. Exactly!
And so it went, and then I listened to a story; the story of a someone who had gone to see a guru, a monk, an oracle incarnate high atop a mountain. It was a search for meaning, something we all should go through, a journey every soul must undertake and in the end hope for the courage to view our lives, our selves, and find them either aggregate or wanting. Never fully consummate, let there be no doubt.
Playing against type, for he was flesh and blood, and not a stereotype within his given life, this wise man told this someone not to strive to find himself, but instead to accept the greater probability that he would, as most men do, spend a wasted life in the seeking. The point is not to find oneself, but to instead believe we were not meant to be found.
This point was illustrated by my friend, who recreated on a notebook page what his friend had drawn for him, itself a derivation of the drawing of the monk. Small circles formed another circle, and within them all, the center being, representative of our most inner selves. The first circles represented all the things we are, that we do, that we show to everyone, everything that makes the outward projection of us. But deep down inside them all rests our true self, the one that even we may never truly meet. And the freedom comes from understanding that in the end, no matter how hard we search, we may never fully get to know ourselves. But isn’t that what makes life interesting? How many times have we said, “I can’t believe I did that.” or “That just wasn’t like me.” Really? How do you know? You did it, didn’t you?
As someone who’s always wondered who I really am, what drives my heartbeat oh-so-deep down inside, what’s my motivation when it comes to living life, it struck me suddenly that if I never got to know, then I would be okay with that. Of course, somehow I’d have to be. But really, how exciting and exhilarating a thought that we can spend our entire lives getting to know others, and ourselves. And, in a sense, perhaps know someone better than we could ever know ourselves, and vice versa.
I kinda like that thought. Last night I went to sleep with a smile on my face thinking about it, and red walls, eclectic things, old guitars, friendships formed, and happenstance. And, of course, some other good advice: dream carefully.   

Nestled in the shade, the red house stood. Small but vibrant, unadorned. A studio and storage hut the lone companions to the relic of a life that had been lived there. The laughter of six children must have echoed off the walls, and through the trees, and floated upon the breeze and the tide within the waters of the darkly wild lagoon. So fitting a home for an artist such as Joi.  


Cautiously, I approached, feeling her spirit somewhere, everywhere nearby, for it had to be. A being so astoundingly eccentric would most certainly venture freely when set free of earthly bonds, and yet somehow not stray too far from the home she had so loved.

 Entering the small building that I knew had been her studio, I called out, my voice returning to me hollowed by the close walls and the heat. There was no answer, yet I spoke to her, calling her by name and asking her permission to visit, explaining that I had so much to tell her, wanting to share my thoughts and even more to be aware of hers. I told her that I knew she’d raised her children there, that I respected her for her decisions and the way she’d lived her life. I said I was a writer, not a famous one, but one who loved to listen and share stories, and I so wanted to share hers.
 I looked around the room and saw my own reflection in a mirror by the door. Oddly, I wasn’t very startled, perhaps though expecting to see Joi, not myself. I only know I wanted to, so very, very much. There was so much she could tell me, I was sure. So many things that she might know. Or then again, she may not have the answers that I sought. I somehow felt the answers may yet dwell inside her house, and so I journeyed on.
 Peering in the front windows, beside the locked door, I saw with my eyes a house in disrepair, but in my heart I pictured it as it may have been, so filled with light and laughter and eclectic things. Across the yard again, around the side, stepping carefully towards the back and the dock and the lagoon that lay beyond the overgrown yard. Rotting boards cushioned my footfalls while they creaked and sang out with a music all their own. My pounding heart accompanied their song as I realized the sliding glass door was unlocked and I felt the little red house welcome me inside with open arms.
 Tattered curtains waited, calmly patient, ever still. Not one ripple of movement, no sound, as the sun poured down upon the aging floor from a skylight in the middle of the room. I spoke to her again, hoping still to hear her voice, to sense her presence, to somehow know that she was there. Nothing. And so I asked her, if she’d be so kind, to please let me know if there was something, some remnant of herself left in this place that I could take, because I wanted so to know that I had been there, to remember the feeling of everything and nothing all at once. So encapsulating. So freeing. So alive but wanting more.      I wandered through the broken rooms, spotting objects here and there still strewn about the vacant, lonely place. These were the things that had remained after the estate sale, after the pondering and the pillaging and the raping of this life no longer real. She’d had a collection of cassettes, her musical tastes as varied as I’m sure were the stories of her days. I almost hoped one would jump out of the wooden case upon the wall; would leap into my waiting hands. Then I would know. I would know that she was there.

 Still nothing stirred. No movement. No sound. Just my wild imagination prodding me onward, into other rooms, round in circles, all the while speaking, emoting, sharing all my thoughts with her, my secrets. I somehow felt I needed her to know, or maybe just because I knew she’d never tell.
 I asked again if she could give me anything, let me know somehow if there was something I could take. Finally, thinking that perhaps she’d gone away, I turned to go. Happy for the time I’d spent there, but lacking one more thing I couldn’t place.
 My gaze fell upon the mantle; an old fireplace I’d glanced at as I’d made my way inside. And there it was. A single die, red in color, like the house, lying there, so unassuming. Suddenly I knew, with everything inside me, that she wanted me to take it. I wondered who was crying, then I realized it was me. All the things I wanted her to tell me, everything I needed her to say; all of it was wrapped up neatly in one single, faded die. I picked it up and held it in my hand, thinking of how well she must have known me already. I would be the one to find this, and she’d known I’d understand.
 “It’s all about the chances that we take,” I heard her say, though not in spoken words; they were unnecessary now. “Go and live your life and take your chances. That’s what I did, girl. Give it time, take your time. It doesn’t matter when you get there, only that you do.”
 And so I thanked her, wiped my eyes and left that lovely place, so grateful for the chance that had been given me to learn about the woman who had lived and died there. Inspiration. Words to live by.
 And still, as I left, the silence.